


turn to me at midnight with a cry

by OfShoesAndShips



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 06:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10736112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfShoesAndShips/pseuds/OfShoesAndShips
Summary: Phryne discovers Jack in his office in the middle of the night; she takes him home (aka Jack has a panic attack)





	turn to me at midnight with a cry

He should have left hours ago, when Hugh had put his head ‘round the door and yawned as he said goodnight; he should have left hours ago, when he had to get up to light the gas; he should have left hours ago, when he’d signed off on the last lot of paperwork, dropped his pen, and sat there for too long with his hands in his hair. He sighs and stretches back in his chair, closing his stinging eyes. A quick shot of pain jabs up his spine and he winces, curls back in on himself. He squints at his watch and rolls his eyes at himself. It’s gone midnight. He really should go home. But home is quiet and dark and too still; home is empty cupboards, empty beds, no-one else breathing in the thin darkness. Here there are gas lamps already lit, throwing thick yellow light in soft patterns across the floor and across his desk; shadows pool in strange but comforting places, and the room is warm from its own smallness, from his own breathing, from a purpose.

He could sleep in his chair, he thinks, though that won’t do his back any good. He could try the bed in one of the cells, though that will be just as cold as the home he’s avoiding. The cup by his left elbow catches his eye, light glowing through the china. The hairline cracks are dark lines in the creamy thinness and he reaches out his hand to trace one but his hand is trembling and when he touches it he’s too heavy handed, so heavy handed that the cup tips over and rolls off the desk. He catches it in his lap but adrenaline is pouring over him now like hail and his hands are jerky as he picks the cup up and puts it back down on the desk.

Jack is shaking all over, now. This is not exactly a turn up for the books. He shakes when he’s angry, when he wakes from a nightmare, when he hasn’t slept, when the pain in his back is so bad it takes effort to breathe.

This, though, is one of the shakings that comes over him without provocation, with ridiculous provocation. His breath rushing through his lungs, too fast and choking, and he clenches his hands around the edge of his desk, bends his head low and holds himself tight to try to counter the echoey feeling in his bones.

Somewhere, in some corner of himself, he spares a grateful thought for the lateness of the hour and for his own forethought in locking the door after Hugh left. It would be just his luck if someone wandered in for help and found him shattered in his chair. His eyes are fixed on the middle distance, unseeing, and he’s concentrating too much on the rushing of his breath and thoughts to hear the irony when someone does, in fact, wander in. He looks up at the sound of a knock on his door but vaguely, seeing but not quite understanding the sight of her distorted by the glass. He makes no movement, but sees her eyes go wide.

There is a sharp, angular bit of movement from behind the glass and then a click that makes him flinch.

“Jack?” she says, storming into the room in the same way she always does but this time with worry in her face. It’s not an emotion he wants to cause and he holds himself tighter, shakes harder.

Her hands are warm on his back and his forearm but he doesn’t look at her. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just that she – he doesn’t know what it is.

“Miss Fisher,” he manages, glancing at her and then looking away.

“It’s late,” she says, brisk suddenly, and stands, easing him up to his feet. He leans into her, just barely, and her hand on his back migrates to around his waist.

He’s too tired to protest as she manoeuvres him out of the station and he slides blankly into the passenger seat of the Hispano.

He curls up as she drives, cold for want of his forgotten overcoat. It doesn’t much bother him but it doesn’t help the shaking and nor does the wind, though that at least pulls the moisture from the corners of his eyes.

As they near her house, he feels her hand against his knee. He thinks about saying that his flat is fine, he doesn’t want to be a bother, but they’re close enough to hers now that to go back is more bother than to stay, so all he says is that she’d better not be being reckless on his account.

“I’m always reckless on your account,” she says, parking up, and comes around to his side to help him out.

It should irritate him, really, but her closeness helps him breathe. She leads him gently through the door and up the stairs, sitting him down on the bed.

Her hands leave him reluctantly, and she disappears from the room with frequent looks back at him; he hears, after a slow moment, her feet on the stairs and her voice, distant, asking for tea to be brought up.

He lets himself sink into the softness of the mattress, taking a sluggish kind of notice of a pain in his hands. He realises, too late, that his fists are clenched. He opens them slowly, pressing his palms against the smooth, cool silk of her bedspread. His feet hang off the bed at a strange angle but he doesn’t want to get his shoes on the silk and he doesn’t have the energy to take his shoes off.

He falls asleep that way, and doesn’t wake back up until she shakes him and presses tea into his hands.

-

“I didn’t know you had shellshock,” she says, once they’re halfway through the teapot and his shakes have given way to exhaustion.

“It’s not shellshock.”

“There’s no shame in it-”

“I know that. It- I had it before the war.”

“Oh,” she says, leaning into him a little. She is warm against him, and he can feel her hair trickling ticklishly over his neck. She runs her thumb over the palm of his free hand and he breathes out very slowly.

“Jack?” she asks.

He drinks a little tea to steady himself. “I’m alright, now.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“You’re a medical professional, are you now?”

“I did find you having a turn in your office not an hour ago. I don’t trust you to your own company just yet.”

“I don’t _have turns_ ,” he says, but he knows he sounds too defensive to be believed.

She shrugs, and then slips her hand into his. Cautiously, he tangles their fingers. He had expected, for so long, that having her this near would be more sharpness than he could take. Perhaps it’s the lateness of the hour but she is so much the reverse of what he expected, so much more gentle than he hoped.

He presses, still cautious, against her side, and closes his eyes for a second. He can smell the last of her fading perfume, and it makes him feel close to losing breath again but in a closer, tighter, scarier kind of way.

He feels her turn, and then the teacup is eased from his hand. He hears china against her nightstand and opens his eyes, lifts his head to apologise, but she shushes him gently.

Her free hand runs up over his ribs and he closes his eyes again.

 

\--

He wakes, as the dawn sneaks milky-yellow through the window, to find himself curled around her on top of the sheets. She’s beautifully lit, sun catching on her skin and showing up her freckles. Her hair is for once untidy and he touches it gently, hesitantly. She stirs, makes a quiet noise, and he pulls his hand back.

“Go back to sleep, Phryne,” he whispers, and with a sigh she does; he closes his eyes and follows quickly after.

\--

He wakes again, a little while later, to see her standing by the bed and stretching – she smiles when she sees he’s awake and he laughs, but only quietly, as she hops back onto the bed beside him.

“Amusing, am I?

“Not exactly,” he says, raising his hand to run his thumb over her cheek, “I’m just...bemused.”

“And feeling better?”

He nods and drops his hand to the bed, remembering suddenly where they are.

“I’ll be out of your hair in no time,” he says, swinging his legs off the bed and trying to straighten the crumples out of his shirt.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m needed at the station.”

“It’s half past seven, Jack. At least join me for breakfast.”

He stands up and pads across the rug to his shoes and jacket, left on the chaise longue.

“I’ve intruded on your hospitality long enough,” he says as he shrugs into his jacket.

“Are you going to be like this every time we sleep together?”

He freezes, clears his throat.

“Miss Fisher-”

“Phryne. Here, at least.”

He sighs. “Phryne. It’s hardly professional.”

She bursts out laughing and he turns, his stomach twisting, to see delight on her face.

“We’re rarely professional.”

“You’re not, perhaps, but I-”

“Have breakfast with me, Jack.”

He sighs and takes his jacket off. “You won’t let me leave until I say yes, will you.”

“You know me so well,” she says.

 


End file.
